Thursday, June 10, 2010

The Floor

While all of these tests and test results flew in and out my life, my husband rested comfortably on the beaches of Aruba. You think I'm kidding, right? Ok, perhaps he wasn't resting comfortably, and maybe he didn't spend much time on the beach, but he was away on a business trip in Aruba. And for that, he will forever pay.
Not only was it emotionally taxing going through all of these changes and potential complications, it was worse doing it alone and then trying to sleep in a big, empty bed. I suppose it falls under the heading of, "When it rains, it pours." My husband did his best to provide empathy and sympathy through chat dialogue and spotty Skype service, but none of it came close to the big strong arms that hug me when I'm scared or overwhelmed. In a word, it sucked.
While all of these emotions swirled around my house like an angry tornado, frustration began to build on top. No, not frustration over "the diabetes" (said in a deep, southern accent). Frustration over the amount of things I can no longer lift, move, and/or carry. And because of this, there are an inordinate amount of things on the floor of my house waiting for my husband to come home and move. The dog's giant bag of food is currently sitting next to the giant dog food tupperware on the floor outside of the laundry room. Abraham's awesome new swing only made it to the bottom of the stairs in its original box (dragged, like a dead body). The new carseat and stroller lay all willy nilly on the garage floor waiting for someone to place them somewhere with more dignity. The giant bean bag chair in the living room remains shoved up against my husband's grandmother's old dresser where the dogs somehow pushed it while trying to reach a tennis ball under the couch. Oh, the dogs' tennis ball is under the couch. They've been whining for 5 days.
It's incredible that turning the "third trimester" corner so quickly resulted in my inability to do 50% of the things I could do last week. Now, if everyone reading this would please tell my husband that he is never allowed to leave the house, let alone the country, again until Abraham is at least 12...it might come across better from all of you than an overly-emotional, irrational whale who can't reach her favorite hair clip that rolled under the bathtub on Tuesday and ALL I WANT TO DO IS PULL MY HAIR BACK IN MY FAVORITE CLIP.